


The Witcher's Reprieve

by The Librarina (tears_of_nienna)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5 Things, Alternate Universe - The Witcher Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:07:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24015682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tears_of_nienna/pseuds/The%20Librarina
Summary: Grantaire doesn't believe in destiny, but his Path keeps leading him to a certain rebel elf. A fusion with the world ofThe Witcher.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 177
Collections: Les Mis Big Bang: Quarantine Edition





	1. Yrden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be sure to check out the [fantastic art by SentimentalSpiders](https://sentimentalspiders.tumblr.com/post/617318104352047104/here-is-the-art-i-did-in-collaboration-with-the)!
> 
> Thanks to the mods for all their hard work, and to Ark for making sure this fic makes sense for Les Mis fans and Witcher fans alike.
> 
> What's a witcher, anyway? There's a 200-word crash-course [here](https://thelibrarina.tumblr.com/post/617304830089789440/heres-a-crash-course-on-the-universe-of-the), if you want it.

It’s midnight, it’s raining, and the nightwraith has yet to show. His silver sword gleams with oil, and the potions that will protect him from the wraith’s attacks are running through his veins like ice. The small fire he’s built hisses and snaps as the rain hits it. He paces back and forth.

 _Meditate_ , say the voices of his old tutors in his head. _Center your mind, find your power_.

But Grantaire has never found meditation as calming as it was meant to be. Being alone with his thoughts isn’t exactly a balm.

A glint of light flashes at the edge of the clearing, eldritch green. The cat medallion at Grantaire’s throat hums a warning, and he raises his sword. Silver, for drowners and foglets and leshens…and wraiths.

There it is, a ghostly skeleton crowned in dead flowers and dressed in a tattered mockery of a wedding gown.

He flings out a hand and casts _Yrden_ on the grass around him, forming a ring of sigils to slow or stop an enemy. The magic makes a wraith corporeal when it crosses the boundary, pinning it within the circle of glyphs.

But first, he’ll have to draw it closer.

The wraith flickers in and out of sight as Grantaire circles his trap warily. It’s seen him, or sensed him, he’s sure of that. Now it’s only a matter of time. He just has to keep it in sight.

It crosses the edge of the trap, and the sigils flare bright. The wraith’s howl sets his teeth on edge, but he plants his feet and swings his sword. It hits home with a sickening crunch—not enough to kill the wraith, but enough to weaken it.

Unfortunately, it’s also enough to knock the wraith out of the circle of glyphs. It flickers, and Grantaire knows better than to waste his strength on attacking now. He shifts his grip on his sword waits for the wraith to drift into the trap again.

Instead, it vanishes and reappears behind him. Grantaire dives to the ground just out of its grasp, tucking into a roll as he hits. His momentum takes him across the trap he’s set, and if he’s lucky the wraith will follow him…

It does. By the time Grantaire gains his feet, the wraith is frozen again. This time, the blow from his sword is enough, and the ghost-light fades as the wraith crumples to the ground. Then it’s only Grantaire, breathing hard in the rain and the howling wind.

There’s another flash, half-seen out of the corner of his eye. He takes it for lightning at first, and that’s almost enough to kill him.

Because there isn’t one nightwraith in this clearing. There are _two_. He casts another ring of glyphs around him as the wraith lets out a deafening scream, and the world flares bright as noon for a heartbeat.

Grantaire staggers backwards, flinching. His eyes are dazzled, and when the darkness returns he can only see the violet afterimages smeared across his eyes. He fumbles for his belt. He has a vial of Cat somewhere, it’ll clear his vision…might overload his body, leave him retching and sick in the aftermath, but that’s better than dying here in the dark—

But this nightwraith is older, angrier, more powerful, and it presses its advantage. Grantaire abandons the thought of another potion, unable to risk even a moment’s inattention. His vision is still dim, so it’s mostly intuition that sends him pivoting to the left just as vicious claws rake through the air in front of him. One claw snags the edge of his armor, slicing through layers of leather, but he’s saved a mauling. He swings his sword in response, but it passes through the wraith without resistance. He has to get it into the trap, or he might as well be shadowboxing.

He dispels the glyphs and casts them again, desperately, throwing them forward as far as he can. The farthest edge just catches the wraith, pinning it in place, and Grantaire charges forward.

It’s over in a moment. This time he turns slowly, focusing his senses and watching every corner of the forest for wraith-light. Nothing. The steady chill of his medallion tells him that there are no more monsters nearby, so he cleans the ichor off his sword and slides it into its sheath on his back. Then he stumbles back to the fire and crouches down to warm his hands, bending low while he catches his breath.

Did the villagers know there were two wraiths, when they sent him out here? No doubt they’ll insist otherwise, as they’ve only promised to pay him for one. Either way, he’ll need trophies. Even the stupidest villagers know not to pay unless you have a trophy—and sometimes even then, it’s a fight. Grantaire just hopes it won’t be a literal one. He’s had enough blood on his hands through the years, and not all of it belonged to monsters.

He draws his knife and kneels down beside the nightwraiths. Cutting off the head has always seemed like an indignity, but it’s the only trophy that’s true proof of a dead wraith. A less-gruesome trophy, like a skeletal hand, might be procured at any untended cemetery, and Grantaire has known plenty of people, witchers included, who would prefer the digging to the fighting.

None but a witcher would have heard the soft hiss of breath behind him. Grantaire looks back over his shoulder to find an elf, caught fast in the trap that he hadn’t yet dispelled. Fading adrenaline surges through him again as he rises to his feet, already reaching for his sword. Steel this time, for mortals instead of monsters. He holds it at guard and steps closer to face the elf.

In the firelight, Grantaire can see that he’s dressed all in browns and greens, with thick leather strips sewn together into armor. He wears leather bracers, to guard his wrists from the bow on his back, and a pair of long knives hang at his belt. Not a simple forager or traveler then, but a warrior. Probably Scoia’tael, at that—an elven rebel.

The light gleams on his fair hair, slick with rain, and catches in his furious eyes. Despite his exhaustion in the wake of the nightwraith battle, Grantaire feels a tug of desire.

He handles it with the same grace as everything else in his life. "And they say Francesca Findabair is the fairest of all the elves," he says. "Did you come to kill me? Clever of you to wait until after the nightwraiths were dead, then. Expecting that I’d be spent, an easier target."

"Release me, _vatt’ghern_." He continues in Elder Speech, and Grantaire can only assume it’s impolite.

"You know, some might consider that being held at swordpoint was a time for caution, perhaps even manners. But not you."

"Why bother? You’re going to kill me anyway."

"Am I? Are you planning to give me reason to?"

"Your kind don’t need a _reason_."

Grantaire rolls his eyes. "Fuck off. I’m not getting paid to kill elves."

"As though that matters. Everyone knows the witchers of the Cat school are murderers and madmen."

Grantaire’s free hand travels to the worn medallion at his throat. "Everyone knows, do they? I wonder who told them." He’ll allow that some of his colleagues are…less than judicious, when it comes to wielding their swords and their power. But the same could be said of any witcher school, or the Lodge of Sorceresses, or the Scoia’tael. To say nothing of the various kings and queens who trample the continent in their rush for glory.

"What were you doing here?" he asks. He probably doesn’t want to know—he’s not one for getting involved, but if the elf is planning to raid the village who hired him, Grantaire is going to have to choose a side, and quickly.

"Scouting."

"For?"

"A safe path," he says, with a wry twist of his mouth. "And I nearly found it. At least when I don’t return, they’ll know not to follow me."

He’s strangely composed, for someone in such dire straits. He expects Grantaire to kill him, but he stands tall and proud, his head raised. Grantaire allows himself to admire that composure.

He wonders how old this one is, if the long years of the elves are longer than Grantaire’s years as a witcher. They seem to grow more remote as they age, and this one is fiercely present. He might be nearly as young as he looks, like a human only a few years out of his teens.

It doesn’t matter, really. The wars will change him, one way or another. Grantaire waves a hand, dispelling the glyphs. "Go."

The elf takes a step back, further from Grantaire’s reach, and rests one hand on the hilt of his knife. "If you think this means that my people will owe you a debt—"

"Just _go_. It’s been a long fucking evening, and I’m not in the mood for another fight."

The unspoken threat is enough to convince the elf. He turns and vanishes into the woods, so quickly and thoroughly that even Grantaire’s witcher senses can’t see where he’s gone.

He watches the woods for a long time, but the elf doesn’t reappear, and no arrows sail out of the darkness to impale him. That’s that, then. Grantaire gathers up his grim trophies, puts out his fire, and begins the long trek back to town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * _Vatt'ghern_ means "witcher." It's not rude by default, but it's definitely rude here.
>   * The Scoia’tael are bands of non-human rebels, mostly elves, fighting for freedom. Scoia’tael is Elder Speech for "squirrels," so sometimes they’re just called that, too. It's usually derogatory when a human says it.
> 



	2. Quen

The second time they meet, he's after a foglet, in the marshes south of Benek. He’s up to his knees in stagnant water, surrounded by reeds and gnarled trees, waiting for the gurgling growl of a monster to slay.

He’d passed through Benek three days ago, heading north, but the villagers had begged him for help, so he’d turned south again. They barely had a pair of coins to rub together, so he’s probably going to get paid in carrots, but if he’d ignored them, the foglet would go on picking them off, one by one, until the whole town died out.

Besides, he likes carrots.

From the way the villagers had talked, Grantaire assumes that the foglet must have a lair nearby, but all he’s managed to find so far are drowners that rear up in lonely twos and threes. Maybe they were mistaken, or exaggerating to gain his pity. That’s doubtful, thought—he’s seen more than one pile of bones since he set out, picked clean of flesh.

At least the midges aren’t biting. Few things, save vampires, fancy the taste of witcher blood.

There’s a copse of trees ahead, on a little rise of ground, and Grantaire sloshes towards it with an aim to dry out his boots before wading back in. Melitele’s ass, he’d sooner swim than deal with this sucking mire.

He’s fifty paces from the trees when an arrow flashes past his shoulder. Swan-fletched, elven in make. Grantaire jerks to the right and uses _Quen_ to pull a shield out of the air, just in time for the second shot to hit him in the chest.

The shield shatters, and the arrow bounces off without even scratching his armor, but the impact shoves Grantaire back a step. He uses the momentum to duck behind a dead, twisted tree and call on his limited grasp of Elder Speech.

" _N’te va_! _Ne spar’le_! _N’_ … _ne_ …ah, fuck. I’m not here to harm you!"

In the quiet that follows, an elven voice calls out in Common.

"Step out from your cover."

"Promise you won’t shoot me," Grantaire replies.

"Do not give us reason, and we will not shoot you. Any more," the voice amends.

That’s as near to an assurance as he’s going to get. He raises his hands to show that they’re empty, and he steps out from the meager cover of the tree.

There are six of them standing among the copse of trees that had formerly looked so inviting to Grantaire. Each elf holds a bow, with an arrow already set to the string. Poor odds, if it comes to a fight, and too many to charm with a spell.

"I apologize for Eponine’s fervor," one of the elves says. He’s taller than the others, with a scattering of freckles across his face. "You are not hurt?"

He shakes his head. "The armor held," he lies. If they haven’t already guessed he’s a witcher, there’s no need to let them know now. "You’re a good shot," he adds, nodding to the lone female elf in the group. She gives him a sharp, mirthless smile.

"What are you doing here?" the elf continues. It’s a demand, not a question, but politely phrased for all that. Grantaire decides not to offer any push-back.

"I’m only passing through, hunting a foglet in the area," he says. "Didn’t realize this part of the marsh was occupied. If you’ll excuse me, I can go back the way I came and we can forget this ever happened."

Two of the elves—Grantaire is going to call them Round-face and Freckles, until he learns their names or they kill him—exchange glances. They seem to be the leaders of this little band, so he’ll focus on them for now. Freckles shakes his head.

"I’m afraid you'll have to come with us. Our commander will know what is to be done with you."

"Fine." It’s even odds that their commander will be a mad zealot, but it’s still better than having them fill him full of arrows right here. "Lead on."

"Wait," Round-face says. "Your swords. You’ll need to give them to us."

Grantaire bites down on an instinctive protest. A witcher is never _truly_ unarmed, but he always feels naked and vulnerable without his swords on his back. He unslings them anyway, handing over the sheathed blades.

"Be careful with those. I’ll want them back when this is done."

The elf gives him a bracing smile. "Of course you will. Can’t go a-witching without your swords." He gathers up Grantaire’s swords with a modicum of care. "Now your hands."

"You can’t have those," Grantaire says drily.

The woman that Freckles called Eponine steps forward with a length of rope, and Grantaire sighs. "In front, or behind?"

"Behind, of course," she says, and Grantaire obediently puts his hands at the small of his back for her to bind them. If he flexes his wrists so that the bonds are looser than they might otherwise have been, that’s only in case of emergency.

It’s an awkward journey, with Grantaire in the middle of a pack of heavily-armed elves. The path is narrow and littered with half-submerged rocks and roots. His bound arms keep him mildly off-balance, aware that he’ll probably break his nose—again—if he stumbles. That’s if he doesn’t land in the murky water and drown.

The path begins to rise, finally bringing them out on top of a rocky hillside, shielded from the surrounding area by thick trees and marsh grasses. Not a bad place for a hunting party to set up camp.

Except this isn’t a hunting party—or rather, not the kind of party that hunts game. There are tents and racks of weapons and a row of training targets set up near the treeline. And there are more elves than he’d expected, fifty at least. Definitely too many to put off, even if he gets the chance to make a run for it.

Everyone eyes Grantaire warily but without fear. Round-face whistles sharply, and after a moment, an elf emerges from the largest tent.

Grantaire catches sight of blond hair, almost curly now that it’s no longer soaked with rain, and familiar cold blue eyes. It’s been a decade, but he looks no different, save that he wears his hair longer, tied loosely behind him. Grantaire finds himself smiling. "Well, well. How fate’s wheel turns."

"Witcher," the elf says flatly. "What brings you here?"

"Your scouts," Grantaire replies. "I was minding my business, but they insisted on bringing me to their commander."

Freckles steps forward. "He was in our territory; we do not know what he might have seen. We thought it best to bring him to you."

Grantaire’s elf nods. "Thank you, Com’ferre. You may return to the watch. I will manage from here."

"Alone?"

"Yes, alone."

"As you say," Com’ferre replies.

Round-face hands over Grantaire’s swords. "These are his," he says. "He’s very particular about them."

"I imagine so. I appreciate your care, Courfeyrac."

He nods. " _Gar’ean’le_ ," he adds, with a sidelong glance at Grantaire. That’s clear enough— _be careful_. But was it a warning for the elf, or for Grantaire?

The elf watches the others go, and then he turns to Grantaire. "You say you were hunting, when they found you?"

"Yes."

"What was your contract this time? I don't suppose it was another nightwraith."

"No. It's a foglet, in the marshlands," Grantaire says. "Probably. Could be any number of things—the townspeople couldn’t give much detail." He frowns. "Come to that, you’re not going to raid Benek, are you? The people there barely have clothes to put on their backs, there’s no point."

"They have a mill, and the highest ground for miles," he counters. "But no, they are in no danger from us. Come, sit with me."

Grantaire follows him to the space in front of his tent, where a half-ring of hewn logs serve as chairs around a fire-pit.

"You know, I usually have to pay extra for this kind of treatment," he says, shifting his bound wrists and hoping that, one way or another, the elf will take the hint. It wouldn’t be the first time Grantaire's tumbled someone without knowing their name.

"Oh, yes. Of course."

Grantaire turns his back to the elf, and the pressure on his wrists slackens almost instantly. When he turns back around, the elf is winding the rope into a neat coil. He stows it in a pouch on his belt—evidently, these elves are not accustomed to waste.

Grantaire rolls his shoulders to take the ache from them.

"I must beg your pardon for the indignity," the elf says, seeing his discomfort. "My hunters will go to great lengths to protect us." He hands Grantaire’s swords back to him, and once they’re slung over his shoulder again, Grantaire feels like the earth is more solid beneath his feet.

"Please, sit. We need to talk."

"Ah, my favorite start to a conversation," Grantaire says, but he sits down where the elf indicates. "What’s your name, anyway? We never got around to that part last time."

"My name is Enjolras."

Grantaire blinks. "That’s a rather Temerian name for an elf."

"My family lived on the outskirts of Vizima, once. Things have…changed since then."

Sensing that some matters are better not pried into, Grantaire keeps his silence.

"And you," Enjolras says. "You’re the one they call the Witcher Grim."

He raises an eyebrow.

"I asked, in the village where you met the nightwraith."

"That’s true. But I prefer _Grantaire_."

"As you like. Tell me, how did you come by your nickname? Are you grimmer than the others of your kind?"

He grins. "Rather the opposite, from what I can tell. But when I came to the School of the Cat, my clothes were ragged and gray—they dye them that way, at the orphanage, so the grime doesn’t show. The other children called me _graymalkin_. It shortened over time, and it spread, so now I am called the Witcher Grim. But a reputation isn’t a bad thing to have, these days."

"Like the _reputation_ of the School of the Cat? They say—"

"Oh, yes, please tell me what they say."

"They _say_ that your lot are all but rabid—that the teachers and their potions turn you into bloodthirsty reavers, practically monsters yourselves. But not you."

"Yes, I’ve always been a bit of a disappointment to my tutors," Grantaire says airily. "Rather drink and flirt than maraud and murder. It’s a wonder they let me out into the world at all."

Enjolras hesitates. "Can I ask—"

"Oh, why not?"

"You don’t look much like…"

"A mutant?" Grantaire supplies.

"A witcher. Aside from your eyes, that is."

He shrugs. Witcher mutations can take a hundred different forms—white hair or sharp teeth or fingernails that retract like a tiger’s claws. Cat-eyes are among the more common mutations, and Grantaire is no exception. His eyes turned green when the mutagen took effect, with slitted pupils that widen in the dark. It was so long ago, he can’t quite remember what color they were before.

"Don’t believe every rumor you hear about witchers," he says. "Malformations make for good stories, but they’re much rarer in reality." True, he’s known of a few witchers who stretched themselves too far, swallowed one mutagen too many and split their skin open or grew vast leathery bat-wings. But most witcher mutations are far more functional—affecting speed and agility and strength. The superficial side-effects are a fair trade for the increased chance at survival.

"My turn to ask a question," Grantaire says. "You’re Scoia’tael, aren’t you?"

"A wasted question, when you already know the answer," Enjolras replies, and it’s true that there’s little point in denial. No, his scouts don’t go around with the fabled squirrel tails hanging from their belts, but that’s only sensible—every human kingdom has a bounty on elven rebels, so it’s best not to look the part.

"Those bracers are new," Grantaire says.

"So is that scar."

Grantaire blinks. "How blunt." The scar follows the line of his cheekbone, the gift from a particularly unruly striga. He knows he’s been lucky to live as long as he had without a maiming, and his reflection was never beautiful to begin with.

Enjolras’ left hand rises to his opposite wrist, almost without thought. They’re not the bracers he’d worn that first night in the forest—but Grantaire had meant it when he said they were _new_. The black leather is delicately tooled, and there’s no sign of wear.

"How did you come by them?" Grantaire asks. "Gift from a friend?"

"From an enemy," Enjolras says shortly.

"I see. Enjolras, what are you doing here?"

"We are fighting for liberty, for our people’s survival."

"Your survival. At the cost of others’ lives?"

"If they fight us. They don’t have to."

"How can they not? The peasants who live on stolen elven land aren’t the ones who took it from you. Your long lives mean that old slights are still fresh for you—but for them, it’s been generations. Are they to blame for their forebears’ crimes?"

"I never claimed it was simple. Justice rarely is."

"And what are you prepared to do, to find your justice, your freedom?"

Enjolras’ face twists into a snarl, and even _that_ is beautiful. "What do you wish me to say? That I am a monster, just the same as those you hunt? Very well, I am a monster. I am the Scoia’tael murderer that human mothers warn their children about, so that they will not stray too far from home. I fight, and I kill, so that one day we will not need to kill any longer."

"Huh. Well, when you reach this mythical land without killing, don’t forget to invite me. I could use a nap."

Enjolras’ anger subsides as quickly as it rose. "So could I," he says, half to himself. It cannot be easy, to live one’s life in constant battle, without even the promise of pay at the end of the work. "Are you going to report us to the Nilfgaardian patrols?"

"I’m no friend to Emperor Emhyr."

"That is not an answer."

" _No_ , I am not going to report you. I came here with a contract to hunt a foglet—and that’s the only part of the story that the people of Benek need to know."

"Then I will choose to trust you, and not waste your time with threats."

"I’m grateful," Grantaire says, nearly managing to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

Enjolras falls quiet, frowning into the cold ash of the fire-pit. "Why did you let me go?"

It’s a little bit gratifying, to know that their first encounter is still on Enjolras’ mind. Grantaire shrugs. "I told you, I don’t get paid to kill elves."

"Because gold is the only god you witchers worship." There’s the faintest sneer in his voice, which raises Grantaire’s hackles in response.

"Your precious _freedom_ doesn’t buy bread."

"Or ale?"

He grins. "Or silver swords, either."

"We know that there will be hunger and pain, even after we have won," Enjolras says quietly. "But such suffering is more easily endured without the burden of oppression."

Grantaire can understand that, and the depth of his sympathy unnerves him. He shifts restlessly. "I still have a foglet to find," he says. "That is, if you’re letting me go."

Enjolras waves a hand. "Of course you may go. I will instruct the scouts that you are to be left alone. Unless we could aid you, in some way, in repayment for the trouble we've caused you?"

"No. I won't ask your people to risk their lives for something so vulgar as _gold_ ," Grantaire returns, grinning. "But I appreciate the offer, nonetheless." He rises to his feet, settling the swords more securely on his back. "I hope you find the freedom you’re after, without ending up on a battlefield." If it comes to that, to open war, Grantaire isn’t certain they’ll be on the same side.

"Cats and Squirrels—we’re made to be enemies, are we not?" Enjolras says, with a fleeting, wry smile. "Luck on the Path, witcher. For both our sakes, I hope we do not meet again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * _N’te va! Ne spar’le!_ — Stop! Don’t shoot!
>   * _Gar’ean’le_ —Be careful.
>   * I decided that Enjolras’ name is Temerian because the Temerian coat of arms is a bunch of fleurs-de-lis and that’s as French as I could get.
>   * Graymalkin—the name of a cat in Macbeth, one of the witches’ familiars. So it’s a pun! Grantaire is a gray Cat, so they call him a gray cat. Har har. (Yes, The Witcher happens 400 years before Shakespeare. Let's pretend Dandelion wrote it or something.)
> 



	3. Axii

_…was taken by the Scoia'tael  
_ _That even witchers fear  
_ _But the rebel elves, they threw him back  
_ _Like a trout too small for a meal!_

"If he keeps singing that song, I'm going to break this mug over his head."

"No, you won't. That's a waste of good ale, and besides—Jehan is the biggest draw this inn has. Everyone loves his songs."

Grantaire gives him a look.

"Well, _almost_ everyone," Joly allows, making a face. "And 'The Witcher's Reprieve' is one of his most popular compositions. He's taught it to a dozen other bards, too, from as far away as White Orchard."

"Wonderful." Grantaire hunches over the bar, just as Musichetta comes gliding down the stairs. He sighs. "It's demeaning. I mean, honestly. _Like a trout too small for a meal_?"

"He's right," Musichetta says, laying a consoling hand on his shoulder. "I have it on good authority that there's nothing wrong with this witcher's trout at all."

Bossuet wolf-whistles from behind the bar, and Grantaire turns around to glare at Musichetta in mock disapproval. "You are a Sorceress of the Lodge. You shouldn't be gossiping with your seamstresses."

"I wasn't, darling." She bends down to peck him on the cheek, smiling. "I was gossiping with the tailor."

Bossuet and Joly both laugh, and even Grantaire gives her a grudging nod as she blows her husbands a kiss and steps out into the town.

"Fine," Grantaire says. "I'll let it go. Can I get another round?"

Bossuet takes his mug and fills it from a cask, and they do the usual back-and-forth about payment. Ever since their first meeting, an incident involving drowners, the pair of them had insisted that he drink for free whenever he visited their inn. Grantaire doubts that they were aware at the time of how much a witcher could drink, and he hates to think he's taking advantage. But the inn is busy, even though it's not a market day, so they must be getting by well enough. He slides his coin back into its pouch with a nod of thanks.

Joly brings over a tray, piled high with empty mugs. His limp isn't so bad today, though the coming autumn promises to be damp, and old wounds ache when the weather changes.

"How's your leg?" Grantaire asks.

Joly grins. "Do you know, when we were married, I swore at Melitele's altar that I would walk through fire for my loves—it's only fitting, somehow, that water would get the better of me."

"Does it bother you?"

Joly catches the change in his tone, and he flicks a damp rag at him. "I can hear you berating yourself from here."

"I'm just sorry I didn't get there in time to stop you getting hurt." He'd come upon the nest of drowners three years ago, just as they tried to drag Joly underwater. He'd taken care of the nest, but Joly's ankle had snapped in the struggle. It healed well enough for walking, but it would never be whole again.

"Stop that," Joly says, an unaccustomed sharpness in his voice. "Do you know what I do, every time it aches? I send Bossuet down to the temple with an offering, in _gratitude_. If you hadn't been there, I would have left them a widow and a widower not a month after we married. Don't ever think I'm less than grateful for you."

Grantaire shrugs off the compliment as the last chord of Jehan's song rings out behind him. He's met with raucous applause and calls for an encore, and Grantaire's sharp hearing catches the sound of coins being scattered on the hearth where he's sitting. He supposes he won't break his mug over Jehan's head after all. He wouldn't want to keep anyone from making their livelihood, and he has to admit that the tune is pleasant enough.

The common room falls into sudden quiet, and the change leaves Grantaire with the prickly feeling of danger to come. He looks up at Bossuet behind the bar and finds him watching something over Grantaire's shoulder—with interest, maybe caution, but not fear. Grantaire turns around.

The drinkers and the gossips have all drawn apart, leaving an open space in the center of the room.

In the open space stands Enjolras.

He's not dressed in rebel armor this time, but in a plain shirt and trousers like any human laborer might wear. His hair is tied back from his face, and his ears are uncovered, which Grantaire expects is a point of pride. He might pass for a human if he hid them, but he'd rather be sneered at than mistaken for what he's not.

"Witcher," he says.

"Enjolras."

He holds up empty hands. "I come to you unarmed, to ask you for aid."

"My aid. In what matter?"

"Must we speak of it here?" he asks, glancing sidelong at the silent crowd, listening to every word.

"I'm afraid so."

Enjolras sighs. "Very well. A group of my people set out to build a settlement, on land that was fairly bought. They have not returned, nor has the scouting party we sent to trace their steps. We can only suppose that something has happened to them, something beyond our skill to address."

"So you came to find a witcher."

He nods. "It is true that we do not relish the aid of outsiders. But I will not pay for pride with the lives of my people."

"All right. But if I'm to do this…"

Enjolras' lips press into a thin line. "I know it will cost, and I am prepared to pay."

"You were the one who said that a witcher's only god was gold," Grantaire replies calmly.

"We can offer you fifty florens."

"One hundred."

"Sixty."

"Eighty-five."

"Done," Enjolras says, and holds out his hand to seal the agreement.

His easy surrender means that Grantaire could probably have held firm at a hundred and Enjolras eventually would have agreed, but it would have cost him the difference in goodwill. He shakes Enjolras' hand, and the contract is set.

"Tell me where the settlers were headed, and I'll leave in the morning."

" _We_ will leave," Enjolras corrects. "I'm coming with you."

Grantaire snorts. "No."

"It's a condition of the contract."

"I'm not going to be responsible for looking after you _and_ dealing with whatever monster made your search party disappear."

"I assure you, witcher, I can protect myself." He lowers his voice. "I need to know what happened to them."

Grantaire wonders if he'd be so confident after a few rounds against a werewolf. "Fine," he says. "Meet me at the edge of town at sunrise."

Enjolras nods, and without a further word he turns and walks away.

There's a brief moment where the hush of the inn prevails, and then it dissolves in a riot of shouts and whispers, rumors spreading and growing before the door has even stopped swinging.

Grantaire downs the last of his drink and pushes the mug back across the bar. If he's leaving at dawn, he'll need to make sure he has all of his supplies. And, as this promises to be the last night he'll spend in a bed for an unknown amount of time, he means to enjoy several hours of uninterrupted sleep.

He doesn't get more than halfway to his feet when he's stopped.

"Ohh, no, you stay right there," Joly says, setting another mug of ale in front of him with a _thunk_. "You're going to tell us what the hell just happened."

"I took a job."

"That was him, wasn't it? The elf from the song? I recognize his _golden hair_ and _sky-blue eyes_ from the refrain."

Grantaire rues the day he met Jehan Prouvaire. "Yes, that was him." He settles back in his seat, already knowing he won't be going anywhere until they're through with him.

"We knew that he was handsome," Bossuet says. "We didn't know that you _liked_ him."

"So what? I like people. I like you, and Joly, and Musichetta. I like Jehan, too, when he isn't singing songs that impugn my honor."

"You could count your friends on your fingertips and still have a hand left to—"

"Don't be _rude_ ," Grantaire scolds. "And don't exaggerate."

Joly shakes his head mournfully. "Chetta is going to be _so_ disappointed that she missed this."

"I've no doubt the two of you will regale her with an entirely false narrative of what went on here. Oh, and speaking of false narratives," he adds, as Jehan approaches, lute abandoned by the hearth.

The bard drapes himself over the bar in despair. "How could you! You should have _told_ me I was selling him short!" he moans. "Now there are ten bards from Downwarren to Novigrad, singing _insufficient_ descriptions of his elven glory!"

"Oh, dear. Maybe you should stop singing 'The Witcher's Reprieve,' then," Grantaire replies hopefully.

He sits back up, dramatics abandoned. "No, no. I could never do that. This is a setback, nothing more. It just needs _revision_. By the time I'm done it will be a masterpiece!"

Grantaire hates to admit it, but knowing Jehan's skill, he has no doubt that a revised Witcher's Reprieve will be just as popular as the original. "Could you 'revise' that line about the trout while you're working?"

Jehan grins and plants a cheerful kiss on Grantaire's cheek. "Oh, my friend." He leans close to whisper in Grantaire's ear. " _Absolutely not_."

* * *

In the gray light just before dawn, Grantaire gathers his things and leaves a coin on the empty bar to pay for the room. When he reaches the stables, he finds that his horse is already saddled and waiting.

"Thank you," he calls out, and Gavroche peeks around the edge of an empty horse-stall.

"Are you _really_ joining up with the Scoia'tael to hunt monsters?"

Rumor spreads faster than a wildfire in a town like this. "No. I'm helping a friend look for his missing companions. That's all. Thank you for getting my horse ready."

"I still say you oughta name them. They like it when you call 'em by name."

"I'll consider it," Grantaire says. He reaches into his purse for a silver piece and tosses it to Gavroche. It's a vast overpayment for a few nights' stabling, but as near as he can tell, Gavroche is a half-elven orphan—or perhaps a runaway—and as such, he doesn't have much. Joly and Bossuet give him a fair wage and let him lodge in the attic above the stables, in exchange for caring for the guests' horses. They wouldn't let him go hungry, but Grantaire still likes to make sure he's looked after. If he's lucky, he'll be able to pay them all another visit soon. If he's not, well. Better to give the boy a coin now.

Enjolras is waiting for him at the edge of town, mounted on a sturdy gray mountain horse. "You're ready?"

Grantaire nods. "Which way?"

"South, into the hills."

"Lead on, then."

But trouble is waiting for them before the town even vanishes around the first bend, in the form of five men standing across the narrow road. They're armed with cudgels and spears that probably started the morning as shovels and axe handles, but they mean trouble all the same.

"Do we go around?" Enjolras asks.

Grantaire sighs and shakes his head. He leads his horse a few paces off the road, loops the reins around the pommel, and dismounts. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Enjolras preparing to do the same.

"No," he says, without looking over his shoulder. "I want you ready to run if this goes badly. My horse will follow yours, and I'll catch you up as soon as I can." _If_ he can. There's always a chance that some peasant with a hay-fork will get in a lucky shot, and Enjolras will have to find himself another witcher.

He keeps his hands well clear of his weapons as he walks up to the tiny mob.

The one in the center, grizzled and mean-eyed, steps forward. "Stay out of this, Grim. We just want the elf."

"Ah. I'm afraid you can't have him."

"He's a Scoia'tael murderer."

"He's my employer," Grantaire counters. "I can't let you hurt him."

The man spits at Grantaire's feet. "Are you threatening us, witcher? Going to kill us with your mutant powers? Everyone knows about your lot, with the cat 'round your necks. Murderers and assassins, no better than common bandits. Heard tell it was one of _you_ what started the massacre at Yantra."

Grantaire's smile is brittle. "What Witcher Parnasse does is, fortunately, no business of mine."

"Oh, aye? Only maybe we think it _is_ your business. Maybe someone's got to answer for it."

This is the tipping point. A single wrong word, and it will come to swords, and none of these fools will ever see their homes and farms again.

But there are alternatives. Grantaire focuses on the leader and makes a subtle hand sign. The man blinks as the _Axii_ spell takes hold, muddling his thoughts.

"I think you should go home now," Grantaire says calmly. "Nobody here is doing anything wrong, and there's work to be done in your fields."

He squints at Grantaire. "Suppose there _is_ work to be done elsewhere," he says. The others exchange glances, but without their leader they don't seem inclined to take initiative. "Maybe we'd best be getting back to the fields, eh, lads?"

The others nod reluctantly, lowering their makeshift weapons, and they trudge back towards the town. Grantaire walks back to where Enjolras is waiting with their horses. He mounts up and nudges the horse into motion.

Enjolras and his mount are beside Grantaire in an instant, keeping an easy pace. "What was that—what you did to him?"

" _Axii_ spell. It'll stun a monster, and it makes people more…compliant. Open to suggestion."

"You controlled his mind."

"Would you rather I killed all five of them? Because that's where that argument was headed."

"Of course not. But it isn't…honorable."

"Are you laboring under the impression that witchers are _honorable_?" Grantaire counters. "Because if you are, then you're going to be disappointed, and sooner rather than later."

Enjolras actually _does_ look disappointed, his forehead creasing in a frown. "Have you ever done it to me? The _Axii_ spell?"

"No."

"And would I know if you were lying?"

"I'll only lie to you if you ask me to," Grantaire says flatly, and that puts an end to the conversation.

It's three days of riding to reach the place where the elves were supposed to settle. They don't talk much, but the silence is almost companionable. Besides, Grantaire needs to be alert for signs of the missing elves, and he might miss something important if they're idly chatting.

Enjolras reins up briefly near a symbol scratched in the bark of a tree. "This is the boundary of the land we were sold," he says. "Their last messenger was dispatched from this area."

Then the elves, or what remains of them, might be anywhere beyond this point. "All right. Let's keep riding, but slower. Let me know if you notice anything unusual."

They ride on for another hour, and the quiet is tense now, thick with waiting. The sun is beginning to lower into afternoon, and if they don't find something soon they'll have to make camp for the night, putting them in danger from whatever beast or monster came upon the elves in the first place—

"Wait," he says. There's something off about this area of the forest. It might be a passing alghoul, or it might be a sign of the lost elves.

Enjolras brings his horse to a stop beside him. "What is it?"

"Not sure yet." Grantaire swings down off his horse. "Stay here while I look around."

"Stay _here_? What if you run into whatever attacked them?"

"You're the one who insisted on coming with me, so you don't get to complain about how I do my job."

Now that he's on the ground, he realizes what had drawn his attention. Blood—he can smell it, thick and sharp in the back of his throat. He focuses and can almost see it, a trail that leads up into the woods. "If I'm not back by evening, take the horses and get out of here. Don't make camp until you're out of the forest."

Without waiting for Enjolras' inevitable protest, he sets off to follow the scent.

He's a quarter of a mile into the woods when he finds the first real hint of a struggle. Bark scraped off a tree, an arrow tangled in the underbrush. He climbs over the gnarled roots of an ancient oak tree, and on the other side he finds all the signs of battle. There's a wagon with a broken wheel, but the crates of supplies are all intact—they weren't set upon by bandits, then.

The ground nearby is trampled, and there's old blood mixed into the dirt, along with torn scraps of clothing. Bows and arrows and short knives litter the ground, but the bodies are gone. Taken, or worse.

And all around him, among the footsteps, are deep furrows dug into the ground in parallel lines. Not from two legs or four legs, but six.

_Fuck_. He circles the area again, to get a better idea of the numbers, and finds a battered and split carapace, easily the size of a wolf. That only confirms what he'd already suspected.

He makes his way back out of the woods, to where Enjolras is waiting. Both of the horses are tethered and cropping contentedly at the grass beside the path, but Enjolras is pacing back and forth, scanning the trees for any sign of Grantaire's return. Grantaire can tell when Enjolras recognizes him by the tension that drops from his shoulders.

"I was starting to worry," Enjolras says, his voice clipped and sharp. "Did you find anything?"

"There was a struggle," he replies. "And a wagon, broken-down. Doesn't look like anything was taken."

"Were there bodies?"

"Not as such."

"But you don't expect to find them alive."

Grantaire nods.

"I suppose I knew that would be the case. What happened? Was it…bad?"

"Do you want the truth? Or do you want me to lie to you?"

"Would you really lie? If I asked you to?"

"Yes. But you wouldn't let me."

Enjolras' smile is wry and sad. "No, I wouldn't. The truth, then, please."

"It was bad, but it didn't last long," Grantaire says.

Enjolras gives him a curt nod. "Thank you for your honesty. Do you know what killed them?"

"Endrega. They look like a lizard crossed with a scorpion, but the size of a pony."

"Can you kill them?"

"I think so. I didn't find any cocoons, so there's no queen in the area. Just workers and drones, probably a warrior or two to guard them. Less than ten, all told. I should be able to manage, if I can draw them out of hiding at a reasonable pace."

Enjolras' expression turns cold. "Did he know they were here? The man who sold us this land, did he _know_ it was infested?"

Grantaire shakes his head. "I can't say for certain."

"Guess, then," Enjolras snaps.

"No. I'm not going to send you haring off to kill a stupid human noble who had probably never even seen the land he was selling."

"But if he—"

"It won't change what happened," Grantaire says. "All we can do is make sure it won't happen again."

Enjolras shakes his head, but he drops the argument.

"We'll camp tonight, well out of their territory. I'll need to brew a few potions to help us, and a lure to draw them up out of their burrows."

They track back a full mile from the site of the battle, enough to be well out of endrega territory, and they make camp there. Grantaire lays out his gear and checks each piece individually, a ritual that's as innate as it is comforting.

"How did you know where to find me?" he asks, without really meaning to.

"I didn't," Enjolras says. "I hope you won't take this personally, but I would have hired any witcher I could find. I heard that there was often one to be found at the Three Boughs, and it was close to the land we'd bought, so I made my way there."

Grantaire nods. "The innkeepers are friends of mine, so it's not surprising someone sent you to them."

"I wasn't looking for you particularly, but I'm pleased you were the one I found."

"Is that flattery I hear?" Grantaire asks, pretending that the compliment hasn't warmed him.

"You're trustworthy. There are so many stories about witchers—from _any_ school—taking payment and disappearing, or demanding a price so high that villagers beggar themselves to survive. I'm not saying I _believe_ those stories," he says, before Grantaire can protest, "but still. I was pleased to find that you were the witcher in question."

"That's faint praise, but I'll take what I can get," Grantaire replies.

Enjolras huffs out a soft laugh, and then he falls silent. He might be watching Grantaire, or watching the stars, or staring at the fire—Grantaire hasn't looked up, so he hardly knows what Enjolras is doing. He might as well have fallen asleep, until he speaks.

"Your friends at the inn. How do you stand it? Knowing that they will die so soon?"

It's blunt, but that's almost refreshing. Other people might have taken half an hour to work around to the point. "Some people are just easy to like. Bossuet and Joly are like that. By the time I realized it would all end in grief, it was too late. I already loved them."

"Loved them. Like—?"

"No, not that way. They're sworn to each other, and to a sorceress called Musichetta. You could ask _her_ the same question, given how long sorceresses live, but she might turn you into a toad."

"I see."

"But to answer your question, I try not to worry about it," Grantaire adds briskly. "After all, the endrega could put an end to me tomorrow, while _they_ might easily live to be ninety. There's no telling."

Enjolras chuckles. "How fitting, for the Witcher Grim. A dark thought, and yet cheerful."

While Grantaire combines ingredients for a few potions, Enjolras draws his paired knives and sets to sharpening them.

Grantaire glances over at him. "Those aren't the knives you had the last time we met."

"No, they aren't." Enjolras slides a polishing cloth along one blade and reverses it to hand it to Grantaire hilt-first.

It's a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, the blade curved and sharpened on both sides. The weight settles easily in his hands, perfectly balanced. The grip is wrapped in dyed leather…and the whole thing is made of solid silver.

"Your people starve, and you carry silver blades," Grantaire says drily, handing the knife back.

"We cannot always rely upon witchers to fight our battles for us. We may not be able to face a wraith or a leshen, but when we _can_ defend ourselves, we do. And there are plenty of witchers who would demand a higher price than these for their services."

"I wasn't criticizing. There aren't enough witchers to go around, these days. We can use what help we get." From the corner of his eye, he sees Enjolras examine the blades and start to slip them back into their sheathes.

"Wait," Grantaire says. "Don't put them away just yet." He reaches into his pack for another vial. This one is filled with an oil designed to poison monsters like the endrega. He measures out a splash for his own blade, then hands the rest of the bottle to Enjolras. "Here. You can't use witcher potions, but the oil will take on your blade just fine. I shouldn't need your help, but it won't hurt for you to have your knives ready."

"Thank you." Enjolras takes the oil and applies it to his knives in careful swipes of his polishing cloth.

"Like I said, you shouldn't have to use them." Grantaire pulls one last bottle from his pack, considers it, then tugs out the cork and drinks.

"Is that a witcher potion?"

Grantaire snorts. "Of a sort. It's cheap whiskey." He holds out the bottle, and to his surprise, Enjolras actually takes it.

He takes a swallow and blinks hard. "That's…certainly something."

"Yeah. Joly and Bossuet'd kill me for drinking this shit, send me off with a bottle of fucking Erveluce or something. But you can't disinfect a wound with Erveluce."

"No, I suppose you can't." Enjolras hands the bottle back.

"So tell me, since I'm going to be risking my life for it tomorrow--what's so important about this land? It doesn't seem to offer any strategic advantage."

"It doesn't. And that's why it's important."

Grantaire glances over at him, one eyebrow raised.

"The human kings and queens send emissaries to us, promising everything to gain our support—land, liberty, sovereignty. They say they will return Dol Blathanna to us when they win the war. But we've heard those promises before, and they are always hollow. Since I was a child, our elders have urged us to have faith, to be patient. But they are waiting for a day that will never come. We've lost Dol Blathanna. It's time to start making a new home."

Grantaire shakes his head. "A village is one thing, but you can't just…carve out a section of woodland and call it a country."

"Isn't that what all kings do?"

"Are you going to be a king, then?"

"Of course not," Enjolras says, his lip curling in distaste. "Kings are impractical; you humans are always having to replace yours. We have time to find a different way. After all, it will be centuries before we gather enough strength to declare our freedom. But is it so wrong, to want a place of our own? I know there are those who make their lives in human cities, _good_ lives. But the sneers and the whispers wear on them, even so."

"I do know something about being mistrusted for one's nature," Grantaire says drily.

"That's not the same. You can stop witching. We can't stop being who we are."

"I can stop witching?" Grantaire echoes. "Have you seen my eyes, Enjolras? I can't— _unmutate_ myself. Do you know what it feels like, when there's a monster nearby? It's like an itch inside me, in my _blood_. I can't stop it, and if I tried to ignore it, it would drive me mad. I can't stop being a witcher any more than you can stop being an elf."

"You're right," he says, more quietly than Grantaire had expected. "My apologies."

Grantaire sighs and leans back on his arms, looking up at the few stars visible among the trees. "But I do understand. The urge to…preserve something. Even if it's only a fraction of what you once had. Witchers can't have children, and gods know I'm not made for that sort of responsibility, but…I understand."

"I suppose neither of us can stop being what we are. All we can do is make peace with our natures."

"I don't know that I've ever seen that sort of peace."

"Yes, well. It's a lot harder to find something if you haven't been looking for it."

"That," Grantaire says, "is exactly the kind of coy, mystical bullshit people expect from elves."

"But if I were human, and I wrote it in a book, they would call it _philosophy_."

"Probably. Got to keep those Oxenfurt professors fed." Grantaire offers the whiskey to Enjolras again and takes a swig himself when he declines. "Anyway, it's late. You should rest."

"I should? You're the one who will be fighting tomorrow. Aren't _you_ going to rest?"

"Don't worry about me."

Enjolras gives him a doubtful look, but he crawls inside his tent anyway. Grantaire kneels by the fire, closes his eyes, and focuses.

He doesn't like meditating. He _can_ do it—it's vital for a witcher, to be able to restore himself without the benefit of a long sleep. Most witchers talk about the emptiness they feel, the serenity at the core of them.

The core of Grantaire has always felt more like a maelstrom. Here is where he hides his flaws, his deepest fears and most secret desires. Each of his life's disasters lurks here, the faces of every person he couldn't save and every person he couldn't have. Enjolras' face is among the latter; he can only pray to whatever gods might be listening that he won't one day see his face among the dead who still haunt him.

* * *

There's one thing to be said for meditation—it makes time pass quickly. It seems like it's been scarcely an hour, but when he feels Enjolras' light touch on his shoulder, he opens his eyes to find that dawn has already broken. He climbs to his feet and stretches, as rested as he's ever been.

He picks up the potions that he'd made the night before. He'd settled on three that should give him the strength and resilience he'll need to survive this. He tucks a White Raffard's Decoction into the top of his boot, in case things take a turn for the worst and he needs something to heal him quickly. Adding it to the others would put him at the very edge of potion toxicity, but if he has to resort to using it, it'll be a matter of life and death anyway.

They walk to the place where the battle happened—it seems like the most likely spot to draw the endrega back. Enjolras can't see the worst of it the way that Grantaire can, but the broken wagon and the scattered weapons are clear enough evidence of the carnage that took place here.

Grantaire steels himself and downs all three of the potions in sequence. They taste like bile, and they scorch all the way down his throat like the rough liquor all potions use as their base. Grantaire closes his eyes as he feels them all take effect, warping his vision and his hearing and his heartbeat.

When he opens his eyes, Enjolras looks slightly unreal, glowing as though he were standing in a beam of sunlight. He's watching Grantaire intently, and Grantaire knows what a sight he must make—black eyes and sharp teeth and the veins standing out on his skin. "Who's the monster now?" he asks, with a wide, manic smile.

"There are no monsters here," Enjolras replies. "Not yet."

Grantaire isn't sure of that. "Go climb a tree like a good squirrel," he says, uncorking the bottle of lure he'd made. "I'll tell you when it's safe to come down."

As soon as Enjolras is settled halfway up a tree, Grantaire starts sprinkling the lure around him. It doesn't smell like much, even with his senses sharpened, but the pheromones will draw any endrega within miles. Then he settles in to wait.

It doesn't take long—their burrow must be nearby. The first one scurries out of hiding scarcely half an hour later, and Grantaire makes quick work of it, ducking to one side and slicing it in half with a single blow of his sword. Then there are two, charging at him from opposite sides. One worker, one warrior. Grantaire stuns the warrior with an _Axii_ spell and blocks the first blow from the heavy forelegs of the worker. Ducking out of the way of its next attack, Grantaire gets in a slashing blow at the endrega worker's side, weakening it. Two more strikes, and it's finished.

Then he's free to turn and face the warrior, which is just now shaking off the effects of the spell. Their long, segmented scorpion tails can be brought down like a hammer from above, but most often they prefer to turn their back to their opponent and whip their tails sideways, like a venomous cudgel. That movement affords a half-second's opportunity to slip in a blow on the monster's softer abdomen, but it also puts one irrevocably inside the range of the tail.

As the endrega warrior turns, Grantaire throws himself forward into a roll and comes up with his sword already swinging for the barbed tail. He slices through it, and the warrior hisses, spattering him with ichor as it turns back to face him. It's still a threat, but without its main weapon it has little protection against the blows that Grantaire rains down on it. He drives his sword between the plates at the base of the endrega's neck, and it crumples to the ground.

There's a lull, and Grantaire takes a breath, setting himself for another attack. Then another, and then a third. They keep coming, in twos and threes, and Grantaire realizes that he's miscalculated. There are at least twice the number of endrega he'd expected, and they're _learning_.

This time, four of them come for him at once, from all angles, and Grantaire has to make a choice. He turns his back on one of the workers and lashes out in a half-circle, driving the other three back. The worker might get in a blow, but if it doesn't knock him down—if it doesn't break his arm— _if_ —

The worker shrieks, and Grantaire glances over his shoulder to see Enjolras wrenching a silver knife out of the endrega's back. "Shouldn't need my help?" Enjolras asks wryly.

"Shut up and put your back to mine," Grantaire says. "Their armor is weakest on their sides. Watch out for the barbs, and whatever you do, _don't_ let the warriors hit you with that tail."

There's no more time for talking then, as the endrega swarm up to them. Each time Enjolras draws a breath, Grantaire is reassured that he's still standing. He'd never meant for Enjolras to get involved in this, and Grantaire has to see him through it, no matter the cost.

"Warrior," Enjolras calls out. "What should I do?"

"Swap places on my signal. Move _left_ when I say. Ready?"

"Ready."

Grantaire stuns the drone he's facing with a heavy blow. " _Go_." He pivots left while Enjolras does the same, just in time to intercept the first blow from the warrior. He doesn't have the focus to stun it with a spell, exhaustion beginning to creep in at the edges of his mind. It rears up and stabs at him with its forelegs, and Grantaire's sword rings as it takes a chip out of the bony armor.

The endrega pivots and brings its clubbed tail to bear, barbs dripping venom.

Time shivers and slows, an effect of the witcher potions, and Grantaire knows he could easily avoid the blow. A dive to the right would put him out of range of the barbs, and he would be well-placed to finish it off.

But if he dodges the blow, the venomous tail will hit Enjolras instead. Enjolras, who lacks a witcher's resistance to poisons. Who can't heal himself with a potion in the direst of emergencies. Enjolras, whom he lo—

Grantaire braces himself and takes the blow on his shoulder. Pain lances up his arm, but he hacks at the warrior's tail and severs it from the rest of the beast, leaving a fragment of the venomous tip under his skin.

There's no time to deal with that now. More endrega are coming, but only drones and workers. Even with his left arm going stiff and numb, Grantaire is able to put the rest of them down.

Then there's silence, ringing as loud as church bells in the empty forest.

"Is that the last of them?"

Grantaire squeezes his eyes closed and focuses the last of his energy on the area around them. "Yes. We got them all."

"Good." Enjolras' voice is thin, breathless, but when Grantaire turns to look at him he doesn't see any injuries. Enjolras pulls a cloth from his pocket to wipe the viscous endrega blood from his knives, but then he pauses and looks back up at Grantaire.

"You're hurt," he snaps.

"'S nothing," Grantaire mumbles. The venom is already burning itself out of him, and he shivers with a false fever. He knows he's bleeding, and that's probably what caught Enjolras' attention, but the barb hasn't severed anything important.

He thinks about the decoction in his boot. He shouldn't take the whole thing, considering all the other potions still raging through him, but perhaps a sip, just to keep him conscious… "It's a piece of one of their tails. I'll deal with it, just let me catch my breath."

"Deal with it _how_? It's dug in beneath your pauldron. You won't even be able to see what you're doing."

"It's not sorcery. The barb has to come out." He leans against the bole of a tree and finds himself sitting on the ground without a clear memory of the transition. Well, that isn't especially good. It's not going to kill him, certainly—he's been closer to death than this, more than once—but it has all the hallmarks of a few very uncomfortable days to come. Delirium is not out of the realm of possibility, and the longer it takes him to get the barb out of his shoulder, the worse it'll be.

"Let me see. Hold still." Enjolras kneels in front of him and braces a hand on his good shoulder, peering down at the place where the barbs pierced Grantaire's leather armor. It's between his shoulder and his collarbone, and it's filling his left arm with a prickling chill and a burning heat by turns. Enjolras' hair falls into his eyes, and he shakes it back impatiently. Grantaire would tuck the strands behind his ear, if he had any daring left in him.

Enjolras goes very still as he seems to realize how close they are. He looks up at Grantaire, uncertain, and then he smiles. "Your eyes are green again," he says.

Their gaze holds. Enjolras' lips part just slightly, and Grantaire finds he can't look away from his mouth. Grantaire leans forward, just an inch…

"Shit _fuck_ ," he gasps, as Enjolras yanks the barbs out of his shoulder. "You—fuck—you could have _warned_ me you were going to—"

"You would have tensed up, and it might have caused more damage on the way out," Enjolras says, not affected in the slightest by whatever might have passed between them. He drops the barbed tail fragment to one side and wipes his hand on his trousers. "You're welcome."

"Fuck you too," Grantaire mumbles, finally reaching into his boot for the White Raffard's Decoction. He plucks out the cork and takes a small, fortifying sip. The overload drives a spike behind his eyes like a hangover, but he can feel his left arm again, so that's an improvement. He closes his eyes and hopes that the ebbing pain isn't a sign of impending unconsciousness. That would be embarrassing.

"Can you walk?" Enjolras asks.

"Of course I can walk."

"Because we've dealt with the endrega, but we're still in the middle of the forest, and you're not in any shape for a fight, so we should probably get back to our camp before dark."

"It's barely noon."

"Yes, and I don't think you'd like me to drag you, so I need to know whether I have to go and get your horse to carry you back."

Grantaire silently wonders which of the gods one prays to for patience. "You do not have to go and get the horses," he says slowly. "If you don't mind _giving me a moment_ , I'll get up and we'll go back to the camp."

He keeps his word, waiting only a handful of breaths before heaving himself back to his feet—and pointedly ignoring the hand Enjolras extends to help him up.

Grantaire wavers, closing his eyes against the head-rush, and then straightens up. "Let's go then, since you're so eager."

It takes time. A _lot_ of time. So much that he's seized with a sudden fear that Enjolras must be hiding some injury, but then he realizes that he's _intentionally_ slowed down, so that Grantaire doesn't strain himself trying to keep his typical pace. If it wasn't so patronizing, it might almost be sweet.

Still, there's no need to look a gift horse in the mouth. Though he really isn't sure he wants to be thinking about Enjolras' mouth, given what just happened. Had he only been using Grantaire's desire—and gods, was he so obvious as that?—to distract him from the pain to come? Or was there something real behind it after all?

But those are questions he'll never dare ask out loud. He'd rather face another round of endrega one-handed than give Enjolras the chance to laugh at him.

Not that he'd _laugh_. He isn't cruel. But kindness might be even worse.

They reach the camp in late afternoon. By then, the effects of the potions have all faded away, leaving him dizzy and exhausted. Enjolras keeps looking over at him and frowning, and Grantaire hopes he's just frustrated. If Enjolras is _worried_ , then things must be more dire than they seem.

All he wants is to lie down and rest. But Enjolras steps in front of him, holding up a hand to stop him. "Wait. Your shoulder, we should—"

"I'll take care of it," Grantaire says. He can't quite stand the thought of Enjolras touching him right now—he can scarcely control his mouth at the best of times, and he knows he'll say something damning if he spends much more time in his presence.

"All right. If you need anything…"

"I know where to find you." It comes out surly instead of dry.

"You're not going to spend all night meditating again, are you? You need to sleep."

"You sound like a grandmother," Grantaire mutters. Not _his_ grandmother, as he never had one, but he expects most grandmothers are somewhat bossy. "Yes, I'm going to sleep."

"Good," Enjolras says. But he waits until Grantaire has gone into his tent before going into his own.

He feels better in the morning, and the worst of the potions' after-effects have faded. Before he'd slept, he had wrapped his shoulder in a poultice soaked with one of Musichetta's remedies, and it too is starting to improve. It'll scar, there's no helping that, but it's already healing, looking as though it's days old rather than only hours. He'll have to patch his armor, but that's a problem for a leatherworker in the next town he passes. For now, he changes into a clean shirt and foregoes the armor entirely. If he gets picked off by some opportunistic wraith between here and the inn, then so be it. It's not worth trying to get his arm back into the stiff leather.

They ride back together, which is faintly surprising. The job's done, so there's no reason for Enjolras to follow him back to town—and what's more, he's gone quiet and distant again, and Grantaire can't muster the energy to draw him out.

They carry on until they reach a barren crossroads about a day's ride from town.

"This is where we part ways," Enjolras says. "Your friends will want to know you survived, and I need to go north, and tell my people what happened. Now that it's safe, some of them may be able to settle there after all." He lifts a pouch from his belt and holds it out to Grantaire. "Your price, as promised."

Grantaire eyes the pouch and sighs. "Keep it. Use it to rebuild."

Enjolras frowns. "The Scoia'tael pay our debts, witcher."

"There's no debt. I wouldn't have made it alone—or at least, I'd be in a lot worse shape than I am. Anyway, I'd just drink it. I'm sure you can find a better use for your gold than that."

Enjolras purses his lips, but he fixes the pouch back to his belt. " _Va fáill_ , Grantaire," he says, and Grantaire is going to remember the way his name slips from Enjolras' tongue for the rest of his life. "You have my thanks."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * _Va fáill_ —Farewell
>   * The inn is technically called the Three _Vows_ , for Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta, but somebody misheard it and it became a running joke. When a local woodcarver offered to pay his tab by carving them a sign, absolutely no one was surprised when it said Three Boughs instead.
> 



	4. Igni

Novigrad smells like shit.

It isn't anyone's fault, really—too many people in too small a space, and they do say piss flows downhill. It smells better up near St. Gregory's Bridge, but they look askance at witchers wandering the well-to-do streets.

Down here in the lower city, the foul runoff from broken sewers mixes with puddles of rainwater and alchemists' discarded potions. A dropped match could have disastrous consequences.

Grantaire has no idea why the best swordsmith in Novigrad keeps a shop down here, but he's not paying the man for answers to impertinent questions. He _is_ paying him a rather exorbitant sum for a new set of swords, built from old elven designs that he'd found in a ruin. But if he's read the designs correctly, the swords will be more than worth their cost.

Grantaire leaves the shop, pulling up the hood of his cloak to keep off the rain, and he turns down an alley that will take him to Hierarch Square. On the damp brick wall, a face gazes out from a poster—an altogether too familiar face. He pulls up short. A merchant nearly collides with him and swears viciously as she passes, but he barely notices.

Grantaire steps closer.

_Wanted: for sedition and murder, the Scoia'tael captain called Enjolras. Reward for capture._

His heart beats a little faster. What has Enjolras been doing to catch the attention of the Novigrad guard? Then again, the poster is crisp and new, which means Enjolras was alive and causing trouble very recently. That's a comfort.

Still, he'd rather not make the guards' work any easier. As he passes, he brushes a silent _Igni_ spell against the bottom corner of the poster. The edge begins to blacken, curling in on itself, and by the time Grantaire walks away, the poster is nothing but ash, drifting away in the breeze.

He sees two more of the posters over the course of the day. Each one gets the same subtle spell, erasing Enjolras' name as well as his face. He hopes that Enjolras is a hundred miles away, in Cintra or Nazair, somewhere he can lie low, but in case he isn't, Grantaire wants to give him every possible advantage.

He finishes his business and decides to end the evening with a drink, and maybe a game of gwent at one of the taverns in the lower city. Tomorrow he's back on the road again, to follow the rumor of a leshen in the forests to the east.

Grantaire doesn't believe in destiny. He chooses a tavern at random, and it's pure unfortunate luck that the bard at the hearth is in the middle of 'The Witcher's Reprieve' when he steps inside. This bard doesn't have Jehan's voice, which is a pity, and he leans a little too hard on the line about the trout.

Grantaire takes his mug of ale to a table in the corner of the tavern, where he can keep his back to the wall. He sips his drink and lets the noise and bustle of the inn wash over him without notice. But his attention is drawn to a table across the room, where a lone figure is seated.

He'd know the face anywhere, even had he not seen it three times today on printed posters. And now Enjolras is sitting in the tavern as though conjured there, unashamed and unmistakable.

Grantaire doesn't believe in destiny. He _doesn't_. But when Enjolras catches his eye, his lip quirks up in the tiniest wry smile, and Grantaire fights an urge to believe in _something_.

Enjolras finishes his drink and tips his head towards the tavern's back door. Grantaire gives him a slow ten-count, then gets up to follow him.

When he steps outside, the smell of the city assaults his nose again, but he ignores it. Enjolras is standing under the eave of the tavern, out of the drizzling rain that's just begun to fall.

"How fate's wheel turns," Enjolras says. He actually looks pleased to see him, and that tips Grantaire's worry over the edge into frustration.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"There are posters of you _all over the city_ ," Grantaire grates out. "And you haven't even got the sense to cover your gods-damned _ears_."

"I've seen the posters. It's not a very good likeness."

"And you're willing to risk your life on that?"

Enjolras' expression suggests that he's risked his life on a great many things, and that he doubts this will be the last time. "I won't be in the city long."

"Why are you in Novigrad at all?"

"I'm meeting a friend. A craftsman, sympathetic to our cause. I'll be out of the city by sunrise."

"You're meeting a 'friend' in the middle of the night?"

"Given your great concern about the posters, don't you think that's safer than meeting in daylight? Besides, he prefers to keep his public business and his private enterprises separate."

Grantaire thinks about the swordsmith from this afternoon, about how he's too good to have a shop in the slums. About the woolen cap he wears, even in the heat of the forge. Grantaire has worked with him before, and they usually get an ale together when the day is done—but not tonight. The swordsmith had begged off, claiming a prior commitment, and Grantaire would bet every floren he's ever owned that he knows exactly why.

"Feuilly," he says. "You're meeting Feuilly."

Enjolras' eyes narrow. "Yes, how did you—?"

"Because he's the reason I'm here, too. I've commissioned him to forge me a new pair of swords, based on some diagrams I found in a—well, it's not really important where I found them."

"What's the matter, were you grave-robbing?"

"No, but I found them in ruins that had been overtaken by an ekimmara. Elven ruins. I didn't want to make things awkward by bringing it up, but I suppose it's too late now."

"I suppose it is."

"What do you want with Feuilly, then?"

"It's not really important what I want with him," Enjolras says loftily, echoing Grantaire's evasion.

"You couldn't have sent a messenger instead? Someone who _isn't_ wanted on a charge of murder?"

"It had to be me," Enjolras says simply. "He won't trust anyone else."

"Hmm. Swordsmith by day, Scoia'tael by night. When does he sleep?"

"Perhaps he's learned to meditate like a witcher," Enjolras suggests.

"Perhaps." Grantaire sighs. "What did you do, Enjolras? How did you attract the guard's notice to such a degree that they offered a reward for capturing you?"

His face clouds. "I caught someone attacking one of my people—not a rebel, not even a sympathizer. Just…someone he thought he could abuse, because they weren't human. I stepped in. He drew first, not that anyone would accept that story from an elf. I didn't see his insignia until after he was dead. Novigrad city watch—a commander."

"A _commander_?" Grantaire lets out a helpless chuckle. "You don't do things by halves, do you?"

"I've never been accused of moderation, no. Tell me, how's your shoulder?"

"That was two years ago."

"The question stands."

"My shoulder is fine."

Enjolras regards him calmly. "You know, a messenger came to us, not long after our adventure with the endrega. He had a chest of coin with him, twice what we paid for the land. I don't suppose you know anything about that, do you?"

"I can't say that I do."

"You're a terrible liar," Enjolras says, frowning. "And you wouldn't let _me_ go after them?"

"You would have just killed him, and you might have gotten caught. Though, having met the man, I couldn't fault you for wanting to. I thought it might be of more use to you if I could convince him to see the…error of his ways."

"Thank you," Enjolras says, all grudging gratitude. "There's a village there now, small but safe. Perhaps they should name it for you."

Grantaire makes a face. "If you'd do me a kindness, name it for anyone, any _thing_ else."

Enjolras smiles, and it makes him even more beautiful. Some scrap of courage stirs in Grantaire, encouraged by the smile. After all, even a long life can be cut short, and there are questions he'd like to have answered, in case they never meet again. "Speaking of the endrega fight," Grantaire starts.

"What about it?"

"After, when you…there was a moment when I thought…"

"Thought what?" Enjolras' eyes flash with challenge—of course he won't make this easy for Grantaire. He'll have to commit himself, open himself to the possibility of being a fool.

So be it. "I thought that you were going to—"

"Wait." Enjolras holds up a hand. His expression has gone flat and distant, and an instant later Grantaire hears what drew his attention.

The regular tread of soldiers, the slosh of boots in the mud and the faint clatter of the scabbards at their belts. By the sound, there must be dozens of them, far more than a standard patrol—a parade of some kind, intended to demonstrate the power and presence of the Novigrad guard.

And the tavern's back door doesn't open from this side. They're trapped in a narrow lane, and Enjolras' face is known to the guard. Grantaire runs the calculations in his mind, knowing the truth before he finishes them: There are too many to fight, and there's nowhere to flee.

He watches Enjolras' expression change, sees the resignation settle over him like a pall as he reaches for his knives. Grantaire has seen that expression on a hundred faces—the decision to go down fighting, to keep from being taken alive.

But it doesn't need to end in bloodshed.

"Put those away," Grantaire says.

Enjolras frowns.

"Put them away and come here."

Enjolras lets go of the knives and takes a half-step closer to Grantaire.

"Sorry about this," Grantaire says, and then he takes Enjolras by the shoulders. He presses him gently against the rough stucco wall of the tavern and kisses him.

Enjolras makes a startled sound, but he's quick to understand Grantaire's intent. Grantaire threads his hands through the hair at Enjolras' temples, carefully hiding his ears from the sight of the approaching guards.

Enjolras slides one rain-chilled hand to the nape of Grantaire's neck; the other hand scrabbles at Grantaire's waist before hooking his fingers in his belt to pull him even closer. He'll probably kill Grantaire when this is over, but he'll be _alive_ to do it, so that's a fair price to pay.

Enjolras' lips part invitingly against his, just as the guards round the corner.

Jeers and whistles erupt, along with a scattering of applause, before their captain calls them all to order. Grantaire doesn't dare move. So long as they can't see Enjolras' face, or his ears, they have no reason to see anything more than an amorous couple, caught out in the rain. Grantaire gives in and lets himself wonder what it would be like, if that was what they were. If Enjolras kissed him because he wanted to, and not because the alternative was a messy death in a Novigrad alleyway.

It's a nice thought, but Grantaire knows better than to delude himself. He waits until the last of the marching footsteps have faded, and another moment for good measure. Then he steps back.

Enjolras looks dazed, his mouth red and his cheeks flushed despite the chill of the rain. The sight of him drives every sensible thought out of Grantaire's mind, leaving him with nothing but the desire to kiss him again.

Enjolras visibly struggles to collect himself. "I—you…"

"You're going to miss your rendezvous," Grantaire says, before Enjolras can build up a proper level of outrage. He unfastens his cloak and throws it over Enjolras' shoulders, pulling up the hood so that it shadows his face. "Go, and for Melitele's sake, _cover your fucking ears_."

Enjolras looks at him, his expression half-hidden by the cloak's hood, and his lips part like he's going to say something else. But then a clock in a distant square begins to chime the hour—a very late hour, indeed—and Enjolras turns and hurries away.


	5. Aard

It's late when Grantaire pushes open the door to the Three Boughs, late enough that he's surprised the door is still unlocked. All he wants is a hot bath and a warm bed, and he's not picky about the order. He's just finished settling a dispute with a group of naiads, and though they'd been very reasonable, they insisted upon negotiating in their territory—specifically, a mountain stream running high with fresh snowmelt. He misses being warm.

The common room is empty, save for Bossuet, washing the mugs behind the bar. "Thank the _gods_ you're here!" he bursts out, as soon as he catches sight of Grantaire.

"Why? What's wrong? Is it Joly? Musichetta?" Grantaire's hand instinctively rises towards the swords on his back, waiting for some signal that will tell him whether to draw steel or silver. If there's danger that even a sorceress cannot combat…

"No, no—nothing's the matter. Nothing like that. There's someone here to see you, that's all."

"Is there?" Grantaire glances around the empty common room.

"Well, not at the moment, though I'm sure it won't be long. He's been waiting for ages, you know—though I probably wasn't supposed to say that…"

An uneven tread sounds on the cellar stairs, and Joly emerges from the trapdoor with a keg of ale slung over his shoulder. "Who's that you're talking to? Oh, Grantaire!" Joly's tone is the same as Bossuet's, cheerful and overeager.

"Yes, I'm happy to see you too. Though apparently not as happy as you are to see me. Will you tell me what's going on?"

"You'll find out," Bossuet says. "And I've coin riding on you, so if you could please _not_ do any riding tonight, I'd be oblige—"

Joly elbows Bossuet hard. "No cheating."

Grantaire frowns. "Cheating at _what_? You're making me nervous."

"It's not important. You'll figure it out. Anyway—"

A floorboard creaks, and Grantaire turns to see Enjolras standing just inside the threshold. He's abruptly, absurdly grateful for the naiads and their icy stream—he's more presentable than usual, though that isn't saying much. Then the breath goes out of him in a rush as the memory of their last meeting returns to assail every one of his senses at once. The tavern, the narrow lane, the guards, and then…

"Hello," Grantaire says, when he finds his voice.

Enjolras inclines his head in a nod.

"Well," Joly says brightly. "We're off to Musichetta's for the night. We'll lock the door behind us, no need for you to trouble yourselves!"

If Grantaire doesn't die of embarrassment, he's going to murder his best friends. But then Joly and Bossuet are hurrying each other out of the door, and there's no time to explain to them that this isn't some sordid assignation—or if it is, it isn't by _his_ arrangement.

The key turns in the door, and then silence reigns.

"Your friends are rather astute."

"You've got the first syllable right," Grantaire mutters.

"I see now why you like them so much. Most humans, even those who claim to believe that elves are their equals, still treat us differently. But they don't."

"They're also kind to mutants and puppies."

Enjolras smiles. "I'm sure they are."

"How long have you been here?"

"A week or so."

"Oh? Have you convinced them all to join your noble cause, then?"

"I didn't come here to recruit anyone. Though your friend the bard _did_ write a song. You might want to advise him to be careful of his audience when he sings it. It's beautiful, but it's not, ah…subtle. "

"You've seen how he dresses. Jehan has no acquaintance with the word 'subtle.'"

"He certainly doesn't seem to, no."

They're talking their way around something, skirting the edge of some mysterious chasm. Grantaire sighs and takes the leap. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to return your cloak," Enjolras says, without meeting Grantaire's eyes.

"If that was all, you could have left it with Joly and Bossuet. But you stayed."

Enjolras shrugs. "They're good company."

"You're not answering my questions."

"And you're not really asking any," Enjolras counters.

Grantaire folds his arms over his chest. "Sometimes a contract takes me to Cintra or Skellige and I don't make it back to the Three Boughs for a year or more. Were you going to wait that long?"

"I hadn't decided. Is it relevant? You're here now."

"Why are you _really_ here, Enjolras?"

He looks away, at the floor somewhere several paces behind Grantaire. "The last time we met," Enjolras begins, and then he stops short.

Ah. Grantaire sighs. "Yes, that. If I insulted your dignity in the process of saving your life, then you have my apolo—"

"You mistake me," Enjolras says sharply, looking up.

"I do?"

"I didn't come here to demand an apology. I came here to ask you to do it again."

Grantaire stares at him, uncomprehending. "You want me to kiss you again. Have you—are you _ensorcelled_ , by chance?" Musichetta would never do such a thing, of course, but there are less-upright mages in the world.

"I am not. I want to know if it feels the same, when our lives are not in danger."

Faced with such a challenge, Grantaire can hardly help but oblige. He steps closer to Enjolras, who paces back with a tiny, challenging smile. Grantaire catches him gently by the shoulders and guides him up against one of the heavy oak pillars that support the ceiling above them.

In Novigrad, he hadn't had time to think, and that had been what saved them. Now, without the threat of mortal peril, it's harder to begin. But then Enjolras' gaze flickers over Grantaire's mouth, and he leans forward to press their lips together.

Before, Enjolras had been all but frozen in shock. This time, his reaction is immediate. He wraps his arms around Grantaire, curling one hand at the back of his neck to keep him close. Grantaire slides his fingers through Enjolras' hair, and he feels Enjolras shiver when he brushes the tip of one ear.

Their bodies are pressed together, and Grantaire draws back before his desire becomes obvious. "Your verdict?"

"Hm?" Enjolras' tone is stunned, his face pink.

"Does it feel the same as before?"

Enjolras tips his head to one side, considering. "I think further investigation may be required."

"Then might I suggest a change of venue? It's late, but I'm not one to give a voyeur a show. After all, I—damn."

"What is it?"

"Joly and Bossuet are gone for the night, and I don't have a key to a room."

Enjolras holds up a small bronze key. "Where do you think I've been staying?"

"Are you inviting me up to your rooms, Enjolras?"

"Are you normally this slow to catch on?"

Yes," Grantaire says. "It's part of my charm."

Enjolras' expression is deeply skeptical, but he turns and leads the way up the narrow stairs, trusting that Grantaire will follow. Grantaire hesitates only long enough to put out the hearth-fire with an _Aard_ spell. He overdoes it, and ash billows out onto the hearth, but he'll clean it up in the morning.

He feels a sudden sympathy for Bossuet—he's definitely going to lose his coin. But the pang passes quickly, and he follows Enjolras up the stairs, two at a time.

Enjolras stops at the farthest door. It's the room that Joly and Bossuet save for Grantaire when he makes his visits—the largest of the dozen-odd guest rooms and the most private. Still, Grantaire hopes that anyone in the rooms beside them is a sound sleeper.

The room is tidy but well-lived-in—Enjolras hadn't been entirely honest, when he claimed to have been here for only a week. Grantaire feels a deep fondness kindle in his chest, something far more damning than lust.

Enjolras lights the lamp beside the bed and turns to him. "Well, then."

Grantaire is carrying half an armory, so it takes time to strip down to his shirt and trousers, leaving a heap of armor and blades beside the door. Enjolras watches him with undisguised interest.

"Comments?" Grantaire asks.

Instead of answering, Enjolras looks away, plucking at the knots that secure his bracers. He takes them off and lays them on the bedside table, one after the other. Grantaire realizes that he's never seen Enjolras without them, and a heartbeat later he sees the reason why.

He's been hiding scars beneath the bracers, pale, uneven lines that circle his wrists like jewelry. Scars left by manacles, heavy ones.

Enjolras sees him looking and draws his hands away, as though he wants to hide them behind his back. Grantaire reaches out to stop him, catching one hand and twining their fingers together. Enjolras opens his mouth to speak, to offer some explanation or apology, but Grantaire stops him with a kiss. There is a story behind the scars—there must be—but it isn't a story for tonight.

He lets go of Enjolras' hand in order to untuck the hem of Enjolras' shirt and slide his hands beneath it. Enjolras lets him pull the soft wool over his head, and Grantaire steps back to look at him.

The lamp gutters, casting flickering shadows over Enjolras' body. Grantaire wants to commission a portrait, so that he never forgets what Enjolras looks like in this moment.

There is a strength here that belies his slimness, as though his whole body has been honed for battle. The scars on his wrists are not alone—there are others here, faint marks along his chest and his stomach, that attest to a century or more of fighting. When Grantaire trails a hand up Enjolras' back to pull him in again, he feels the scattered scars of a lashing across his shoulders. Rage blooms in his chest, and he bites down gently on Enjolras' lip to distract them both.

He pulls away and uses the time to catch his breath while he removes his own shirt. If Enjolras is embarrassed by his scars, let him compare them to Grantaire's. The monsters he's fought have left their marks like a map across his body. This from a kikimora, that from an archgriffin. A knotted line on his right thigh pays tribute to a bandit's lucky blow.

Grantaire is accustomed to the looks his scars receive—revulsion or reverence, every time. But Enjolras' expression is of mingled curiosity and desire, like he sees Grantaire beneath the scars. It's more unnerving than he might have thought.

They shed the rest of their clothing with impatience, boots and trousers and smallclothes discarded beside the bed. Enjolras is beautiful in the lamplight, broad shoulders and narrow hips and hungry, glinting eyes.

A tiny smile tugs at the corner of Enjolras' mouth. "The bard perjured himself, I see."

"That fucking song," Grantaire mutters.

Enjolras laughs, a shockingly bright sound that warms Grantaire like sunlight, and this time Enjolras is the one who steps forward for a kiss. Grantaire twines his arms around him and pulls him backwards, until he's sitting at the edge of the bed and Enjolras is standing in front of him.

"What do you want?" Grantaire asks, looking up at him.

Enjolras considers. "What will you have?"

Unfair, when he already knows the answer. "Anything. Anything you like."

Enjolras draws away and lifts a stoppered bottle from his pack. When he removes the cork, the air fills with the scent of olive oil and cloves. This isn't cooking oil pressed into alternate service—it's purpose-made, which means that Enjolras bought it or made it with the intent to use it for exactly this.

"You've been planning this."

"I had hopes," Enjolras corrects. "I thought it best to be prepared."

"Then come here and _prepare_."

Grantaire still doesn't know what Enjolras intends until he dips his fingers into the oil and reaches back behind himself. _This_ , then—yes. He watches Enjolras prepare himself with rapt attention, unwilling to blink lest he miss some fractional change in Enjolras' expression.

His hands are steady and practical as he works, but his body betrays him, his breath stuttering and trembling. He keeps his eyes fixed on Grantaire all the while, and that alone is more seductive than any succubus he's ever fought. Grantaire curls his hands into fists to keep from reaching out. If he reaches for Enjolras, he'll give into the urge to drop to his knees, and that isn't what Enjolras has chosen.

After an eternity, Enjolras picks up the bottle of oil again and brings it to the bedside. "Lie down," he says, and Grantaire pulls his legs up onto the bed, lying back on the pillows.

Enjolras tips the bottle, and the oil drips onto Grantaire's cock in a maddening drizzle. Grantaire spreads the oil himself, in a few light strokes, because he knows that if Enjolras puts his hands on him it will mean his end. He beckons to Enjolras with his other hand.

"Come here."

Enjolras sets down the bottle and swings one leg over Grantaire's hips to settle astride him. His body barely brushes against Grantaire's cock, but the friction of it still has Grantaire lifting his hips from the bed in search of more.

"Is this what you wanted?" Enjolras asks, wide-eyed.

"You damned _tease_." Grantaire tugs him down into a kiss. The movement pulls Enjolras off his knees so that he's lying flat atop Grantaire, with his cock trapped between their bodies.

Let him keep that smug smile on his face now.

Grantaire lets his mouth wander from Enjolras' lips to the graceful angle of his jaw. He's already established that Enjolras' ears are sensitive, so when he grazes one earlobe with his teeth he's entirely unsurprised at the resulting jolt. Enjolras rocks his hips in search of friction, but Grantaire's arm around his waist keeps him still.

Enjolras pushes himself up, kneeling over Grantaire again, and he pauses. The look he rakes over Grantaire's body feels like a physical thing. Then he frowns and reaches out to trace the jagged line of scar below Grantaire's collarbone—the souvenir from their battle with the endrega. "You took that blow for me, didn't you? If you had dodged…"

Grantaire nods. "I couldn't risk it."

"You shouldn't have done that."

"I'd make the same choice every time," he says flatly.

Enjolras' eyes narrow at the sincerity in his voice, and Grantaire thinks he'll argue the point. Instead, he shifts backwards and settles himself onto Grantaire's cock with agonizing patience. Grantaire wills himself into stillness, all of his mind focused against the urge to thrust home.

There's a frozen moment where they look at each other, breathless and overwhelmed. Then Enjolras rises up on his knees and sinks down again, setting a pace that's slow and careful and torturous.

Grantaire groans, flinging one arm up to cover his eyes. "Come on, I've seen you on horseback. I know you can do better than that."

"My usual mounts are better trained than you," he replies, punctuating his words with a series of quicker strokes.

The change sends a jolt of pleasure through Grantaire, and he clings to his composure enough to offer Enjolras a grin. "That's more like it."

Grantaire settles his hands on Enjolras' waist, guiding him back down even as his own hips rise to meet each thrust. Enjolras loses his reticence as his composure begins to fray, and he leans forward to keep his balance, gripping Grantaire's shoulder for leverage. His hair falls loose over his shoulder, strands brushing Grantaire's skin. He's glorious, transcendent—he could have anyone in the world if he wanted, and for some reason Enjolras wants _him_.

Grantaire watches the way Enjolras shivers each time he sinks down. He's getting close now, and the tip of his cock is the same flushed pink as his face.

Grantaire bends at the waist, pushing himself upright until Enjolras is all but sitting in his lap. He slides one hand into Enjolras' hair and kisses him.

He moves the other hand from Enjolras' hip to his cock, stroking in counterpoint to Enjolras' unsteady movement. Enjolras tips his head back, breaking the kiss, and he makes a desperate keening sound that runs through Grantaire like lightning.

" _Caemm'le_ ," Enjolras gasps. " _Caemm'le, minne_. I want—"

Pleasure crests in him like a wave, like a tide, and Grantaire thrusts up as he comes. Enjolras is all that he can see, all that he can feel, and when he draws his hand along the length of Enjolras' cock one last time, Enjolras cries out and follows him over the edge.

When the world drifts back into focus, Enjolras is still kneeling astride him, his head bowed as he draws in slow, shaking breaths. He lifts his head and looks at Grantaire, one eyebrow raised in a wordless question. Grantaire pulls them back down onto the bed for one more kiss, slow and heady in the aftermath, and Enjolras disentangles himself to lie down beside him.

Grantaire doesn't fall asleep, but he lets his thoughts wander for a while, watching the shadows from the lamp flicker on the ceiling. Enjolras' head rests heavily on his shoulder, his lips an inch away from the endrega scar.

He doesn't know what this means for the pair of them, in the long or short term. Grantaire will always be on the road, on the Path, seeking monsters. He cannot imagine that Enjolras will be willing to uproot his whole existence to follow him, just as Grantaire cannot stop witching and throw in his lot with the Scoia'tael. Could Enjolras be content, with such distance between them? Does Grantaire even have the right to ask that of him?

And perhaps the question of the long term is moot, anyway. His scars are more than enough reminder that his mutations have not made him immortal.

"Witchers don't die in their beds," Grantaire says softly.

Enjolras stirs. "You might be the first," he counters, "if this is your attempt at pillow talk."

"It's not that. It's just…a warning, I suppose. Whatever this is, between us, I don't want it to end in your being hurt."

He lifts his head, his brow faintly furrowed. "How thoughtful. And condescending."

" _Condescending_?"

"I'm not some human of nineteen winters, who's never left his village. I'm well aware of the dangers of this world, Grantaire."

"I know that. I didn't mean to imply otherwise. But the world is rather more dangerous for a witcher than for most."

"Is it? Witchers don't die in their beds, that's true, but neither do Scoia'tael. You might not be the first one to fall."

Grantaire shudders at the idea; Enjolras takes it for a chill and reaches down to pull the blanket over them both before letting his head fall back onto Grantaire's shoulder.

"I don't suppose it would be worthwhile to ask you to be careful," Grantaire says.

He feels Enjolras' sigh on his skin. "I will cover my ears when I go to Novigrad," he says reluctantly.

Grantaire would prefer it if he stopped going to Novigrad at all, for a generation or so, but he'll take this minor concession with gratitude. "Thank you," he says, reaching up to slip one hand through Enjolras' hair.

"You might be more careful as well," Enjolras adds. "I know you witchers can live for centuries, and it would be a terrible waste to die early."

"I'll be as careful as I can." He doesn't often have much choice in the danger of the jobs he takes, but there are signs and potions for defense. He could stand to use them more often than he does—it might save him a scar or two, at least.

"That's settled, then," Enjolras murmurs. "Enough talking."

Grantaire lets go of him long enough to put out the lamp with a gentle _Aard_ spell. Then he wraps his arms around Enjolras, and they sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Bossuet bet on Enjolras and Grantaire's restraint. He knew it was a bad bet when he made it.
>   * I don't actually know what happened to Enjolras' wrists (yet). All I know is that I'm pretty sure it was how he met Courfeyrac and Combeferre.
>   * _Caemm'le, minne_ —Come, love.
> 

> 
> Thanks for reading! I had a ton of fun writing this, and I hope you enjoyed it, too. 
> 
> Please don't forget to check out SentimentalSpiders' wonderful artwork here!


End file.
